


Time

by thedivinemusic



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Dom/sub, Healthy Relationships, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sick Steve, dark themes, self-loathing Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedivinemusic/pseuds/thedivinemusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man in the corner was a bad omen, Bucky knew.  It would've been nice to have known how bad, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lightning Crashes

“I dunno, Stevie, I think we should head home soon,” murmured Bucky, deliberately keeping his gaze to the corner of the room were a long-haired man’s face was obscured by the lighting of the dance club. If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say why the stranger made him so nervous, but his ears rang every time the man had moved, and it hadn’t been often. Even if he couldn’t see the man’s eyes in the shadows, he could feel his gaze on them, on Steve, and it didn’t feel friendly.

The younger man hadn’t seemed to notice Bucky’s silent showdown, a brilliant flush to his cheeks in the heat of the dance hall. He sighed—a huffed noise—and looked longingly to the dance floor; “I should’ve worn something else. We could’ve danced, then.”

Bucky let a smile twitch into the corners of his mouth, then, and offered, “We can always come back on Friday. Bet Steph’d knock ‘em dead.”

It had been their quiet secret for years, well-kept in the corners of their closet; people like them were arrested every day just for loving someone with the wrong bits. But Steve’d always been clever, and the first time Bucky came home to him all dolled up in a sweet, thistle dress, it’s taken half a moment for him to realize who it was and only another half to have him (her—always her in stockings and polished heels) pressed against the wall, mouths hungrily searching each other out and hands grasping and gripping.

Steph, after all, was a gorgeous girl.

Steve laughed, and even if he didn’t quite want to leave yet, he let Bucky tug him to his feet. The older man spared a last glance to the corner (still there, and it was a comfort to think that maybe he was just some leery-eyed thing) as they exited the club. It was a fair walk between them and their apartment, but the night was warm and well-lit on the sidewalks of New York.

“Y’know,” Steve began, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walked, “I read that Greta Garbo’s gonna be in town next week. We should see if we can’t, I dunno, get her autograph or somethin’. Betcha she’d dance with you if she saw how you move.”

In reality, they both knew Steve wasn’t that much of a fan, but Bucky? He loved her, had seen all of her films the minute they’d come out, and he slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders and laughed.

“Gotta get permission from Steph t’kiss her if I get the chance. I mean, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime sorta thing! Gotta wonder what she’s doin’ over on this side of the country, though.” The uneasiness had settled considerably from the moment they’d left the hall, and even if Bucky’s gaze was alert, he’d relaxed enough to feel the rush of excitement at the thought of meeting his teenage film crush.

Steve smiled, bumping against Bucky and letting out a short laugh; “Aww, Steph’s an understandin’ girl. I’m sure she’d be fine ‘s long as Miss Garbo don’t go stealin’ you.”

“Y’think?” Bucky grinned, looking down at Steve a moment to squeeze the man’s shoulders. “I dunno, Steph might have to fight her for me. I mean, Miss Garbo only goes for the best, after all.”

With a snort and an elbow to the ribs, Steve rolled his eyes and answered, “Maybe she’d push y’off on her, instead. Let Miss Garbo handle your morning breath!”

Bucky had the grace to look briefly offended as they reached their building, tugging open the door and holding a hand over his heart. “I thought she liked my morning breath! ‘S what she told me.”

“Confessions given under duress don’t count, Buck,” Steve teased starting up the stairs and lapsing into silence as the strain had his breath quickening.

With a watchful eye, Bucky climbed behind him, shaking his head and quickly filling the gap in conversation with a long thing about trust and dignity that may have had more impact if he hadn’t belched the moment he’d reached the top of the stairs, glaring at Steve who—despite heaving lungs—muffled bouts of laughter against his jacket sleeve in an effort not to wake anyone.

Bucky just grinned, shaking his head and fishing their key out of his pocket. “Yeah, yeah, don’t go givin’ yourself an aneurism there ‘cause I ain’t carrying your ass to the hospital this time of night. I’ve got work in the morning, you know.”

Slipping inside, Steve locked the door behind them, still sniggering as he finally draped his arms around Bucky’s neck, leaning against the man’s chest.

“So you sure you’d be okay if I kissed Greta Garbo?” Bucky asked, hands finding their way to Steve’s hips.

The shorter man nodded; “Like you said, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime sorta thing. If I thought she might be keepin’ you longer, I might object, but she’s only here for a few days anyway. And besides, I can kiss you whenever I wanna.” And, to give weight to his point, Steve stood on tiptoe, pressing his lips to Bucky’s and tangling his fingers in the man’s hair.

Bucky laughed against Steve’s mouth, unbuttoning the oversized beige coat and letting it fall to the floor as his fingers moved up to work open Steve’s tie. “You don’t really hate my morning breath, though, do you?” he asked as he pulled back enough to let his own jacket slip off his shoulders.

Steve grinned, stepping back to work his shirt open as he made his way toward their bedroom. “’Course I do—you smell like somethin’ died in your mouth an’ didn’t have the courtesy to do it outta the way. If you didn’t have such a pretty mouth I’d probably never kiss you, an’ then where would you be?”

“Kissin’ Greta Garbo,” Bucky retorted, untucking his shirt and popping open the buttons as he followed after Steve.

The blond man rolled his eyes, shirt falling to the ground and belt and pants following shoes and socks shortly thereafter. “You jus’ wanted to leave ‘cause you were sportin’ a stiffy all night.”

“A stiffy that’s entirely your fault, you ass,” Bucky shot back, letting his pants fall right beside Steve’s and toeing off his boots as he exposed the half-mast tent in his boxers. “Ten minutes in the bathroom ‘fore we left and I woulda been fine.”

“Ten minutes in the bathroom,” Steve countered, stepping forward to grip the shape of Bucky’s cock through the loose cotton, “and you woulda been wasting all of what you oughta be savin’ for me.”

With a groan, Bucky tugged Steve back into his arms, kissing him fiercely as the sound of rain began to patter against their window and both were immensely grateful to have made it inside before the deluge. Steve’s nimble fingers worked slowly against Bucky’s clothed shaft, walking up to the head before wrapping around to give a teasing stroke that left Buck grinding his hips against Steve’s.

Thunder woke outside, and Steve grinned; they had a chance to be vocal when the sky cracked like this and he’d always loved the sounds of Bucky beneath him.

Meeting the taller man’s gaze, Steve asked, “Have you been savin’ it up for me?”

“’s been a week, baby doll,” Bucky answered, his voice strained now under Steve’s ministrations. “You gotta let me bust, or it’s gonna come out in my sleep.”

Tsking softly, Steve’s free hand stroked Bucky’s cheek. “I ain’t gonna fuck you tonight—that’s for Friday, for when we got all the time in the world—but if you’re good I’ll let you come on my ass.”

“And if I’m bad?” Bucky pressed, calloused hands smoothing along Steve’s sides as the thunder grew in volume and violence outside.

“I’ll bend you over my knee and spank you ‘till you come on the floor,” he answered, nonchalant even as he felt Bucky’s cock give a twitch at the thought. Grinning, he raised a brow. “You like that?” he continued, teasing at the head and feeling Bucky’s warm skin beneath his fingers even as his own cock rose slowly; he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get it up, tonight, but they’d long since learned to work around that.

As Bucky nodded, Steve went on, “Want me to take you, bare-assed, over my knees an’ trap your cock between my thighs, an’ every time I hit you it’ll rub right between ‘em? Want me to work my fingers into you an’ fuck you on them between hits? That sound good?” He knew it did, feeling the gathering dampness at the tip of Bucky’s cock as pre-come soaked the cloth of his shorts and he knew he’d have to let ‘em sit in water a while to get the stain out.

Grinding into Steve’s hand, Bucky was too aroused to notice the inconsistent lightning patterns outside, flashes of yellow light that had nothing to do with the storm. Instead, he was lust-dizzy and panting, “God, yes… Please, Stevie, I gotta come. ‘S so hard it hurts, an’ I ain’t even beat off in a month.”

Steve took his time to consider this, fingers all the while toying lightly with Bucky’s head, slipping down now and then to cup and weigh his balls. “I guess you’ve been good lately, and I have been kinda mean. Ditch these shorts an’ lay down on your back—we’ll see if I can’t do anything for ya.”

Bucky was too far gone to tease back like he normally would have, a week’s worth of tension curled in his stomach in the rapidity of his pulse that could be read across the room by the motions of his cock, pre leaking freely from behind the foreskin. Steve wriggled out of his shorts, grateful that Bucky didn’t mention the state of his own cock, flaccid between his thighs. They both knew Steve couldn’t get it up every night—somewhere between poor circulation, asthma, and his anemia, he had difficulty coaxing blood into places he wanted it, and Bucky knew well enough that just because it didn’t show didn’t mean Steve wasn’t enjoying himself.

Straddling the man’s hips, Steve reached behind him to press Bucky’s cock between his cheeks, humping slowly as he watched the mixture of expressions that few across Bucky’s face.

“ _Fuck—_ “ Bucky hissed, the friction tight and hot and good along his aching shaft as he gripped Steve’s hips and tried not to move. More often than not, he’d prefer disobedience—he liked the punishments Steve came up with, liked the game and the gleam in the boy’s eyes. Tonight, though, it was late, and he had work, and the last thing he wanted to do was anger his lover.

It was luck, then, and years of practice that let Steve read the breaking point in Bucky’s heaving breaths and whimpers, and he sped up his motions with a murmured, “Go ahead,” a warmth in his eyes as Bucky’s face lit up, hips jackrabbiting up as he chased orgasm, Steve clenching tightly around him for the extra friction and neither hearing the heavy footsteps that moved up the stairs or into the hallway outside their door.

With a strangled cry, Bucky went over the edge, Steve focusing on the feel of hot come splattering between his cheeks as his hands splayed over Bucky’s chest. The world was quiet a moment, Steve seated atop Bucky as they panted into the space between them. A flash of lightning outside splashed over them, and with the resulting boom of thunder the world lurched beneath them.

Eyes widening, they felt just as much as heard something heavy banging against their door, working to break it down, and they dove from their bed to scramble for clothes. It had always been a possibility, they knew, that someone might figure them out. All the prayer in the world wouldn’t save them if it was the police at their door, and Steve gripped his chest as he felt his heart falling out of rhythm, Bucky kneeling beside him only half-dressed as the door splintered open.

“Steve—no, you gotta help Steve!” Bucky cried, struggling as gloved hands gripped his arms, hauling him out of the apartment with Steve gasping and clutching at the man who’d lifted him up. There was a flash of blue, a heavy fist, and what Bucky knew next was dreamless darkness.


	2. Waking Up

Coming to was a slow thing, swimming against the current and trying to calm the ringing in his ears, but Bucky managed to force open his eyes after a bit of time. Cold cement lay beneath him, and he groaned as he struggled to sit up, head heavy and sore and dully throbbing as he reached a hand up to gingerly rub at the sizeable lump.

Had he gotten in a fight, again? Steve’d kill him for it when he got home.

Vision hazy, he wrapped his arms around himself and wondered if the idiot had remembered to close the window. It was cold, and it wouldn’t do anything good for Steve’s lungs.

Bucky paused, then, feeling the fabric of his shirt—no, wait… Looking down, he squinted until a grey smock came into focus. Where the hell were his clothes? What the hell was he wearing?

_Shouting and banging and blue light_  
 _“You gotta help Steve!”_

Scrambling to his feet, Bucky fell heavy against the cinderblock wall of his cell. Steve laid on his chest in the cell across from him, a long hallway full of iron bars stretching to either side of them. Bucky pressed himself against the bars, straining to make out the subtle rise and fall of Steve’s back—he was breathing, at least.

“Steve?” He called, trying to see if anyone was around. “Hey—hey! Can we get some blankets down here?” No response came, and Bucky had to wonder where anyone was. In fact, as he shouted for Steve to wake up, he had to wonder where the other inmates were. They were in New York—empty prisons didn’t exist. Not with murder and theft and queers—

Biting his lip, Bucky braced himself against the door, still dizzy but solidly determined, and rattled it as hard as he could; he hoped if he made enough noise, someone would come through to shut him up.

“If I didn’t need you, I’d kill you here and now.” The voice came from just inside Bucky’s blind spot, and he couldn’t see around the cell wall enough to know who was talking. The voice was male, definitely, and elderly at that. Bucky hadn’t heard any footsteps, though; had he been standing there the whole time?

“He needs a blanket,” Bucky pleaded, trying to ignore the sinking in his gut. “ _Please_ , he’s got asthma and it’s cold.”

“I know,” answered the voice, and when Bucky heard no motion he grew angry, rattling the door again.

“You can’t just let him die! Get a damn blanket!”

“It’s interesting, you know,” the voice went on, and there was a definitive twang to it—he wasn’t from the deep South, that was for sure, but he wasn’t a Northerner and Bucky shivered. They were much harsher on queers in the South—he’d hidden articles about people being burned alive from Steve, trying so hard to let him believe that people were good, and for what? 

He didn’t know, and it scared him.

The man went on, “If I’d been aware that you were always so much trouble, there are plenty of things I would’ve done differently. But old men die in the past,” he laughed, and it sent a chill down Bucky’s spine, “and now’s a time for living. For shaping history and setting an example. I know it doesn’t seem like it yet, but you’re about to be a part of the New World; you should be proud.”

“Look,” Bucky interrupted, bordering between aggravated and terrified. “I don’t know what you’re going on about, but Steve needs—“

“I’m well aware. But generally the point of an assassination is to kill a person, not keep them warm.”

Assassination? No—he and Steve weren’t anybody. Things like that were for people who got in the way, who saw too much or did too much or said too much, and the two of them? They weren’t anywhere near that.

“Oh, he’s not, yet, but that man over there becomes the biggest thorn in my side in years to come. And I could have killed him right off the bat, but then you might have followed and as much of a pain as you are, we need you alive. There’s a delicacy to this all—you don’t have to understand, and it won’t matter once we wipe you,” the man went on, standing still in the facelessness of shadows. “The only real problem here is generating enough power. You have such primitive technology, and we need enough electricity to wipe you entirely clean before we kill him. And then, of course, there’s keeping you alive until we’re ready. Anything dangerous has been removed from your cell, but I know you well enough to know you could manage it anyway, so here’s my deal: you figure out a way to get Steven out of here before we wipe you, and you’re free to go. We’ll hunt you down another time.”

Bucky gritted his teeth, head still ringing (louder, now, and it ached all the way to his teeth); none of it was adding up. Not an ounce of it made sense, and he argued, “We didn’t do anythin’; you can’t prove anythin’, anyway, and we haven’t had a trial yet. We’re supposed to have a trial!”

“You’re not here because you’re _homosexual_ ; you’re here because I want him _dead_.”

With that, Bucky heard retreating footsteps registering in the back of his mind as he threw himself against the door. “You can’t do this! You _can’t_!” he cried out, hot tears spilling over his cheeks as the bars bruised his shoulders and back in long, uniform lines that didn’t hurt as much as watching Steve lay on the ground not ten feet away did. Because the truth was right there; the man could do whatever he wanted. They were a couple of poor New York queers. No-one was coming looking for them.

Dizziness catching up, Bucky slid down the bars, clutching at them as his knees gave way, vision swimming thickly between tears and what he guessed must have been a concussion, and he knew better than to let himself go to sleep with one of those but it didn’t seem to matter much. Those bars were solid, and Bucky didn’t have a single thing on him he could use to pick a lock with, and his head hurt so much, and it was so cold (getting colder, he thought, and wished he could do more than will Steve to move).

There was no way to tell what time it was when he woke next. The ascent was slow, perhaps slower than the last had been, but despite his body’s recalcitrance his mind at least recalled what had happened. Shifting found Steve curled in a corner of his cell; he’d woken at some point, and was sleeping, now, soft snores rattling his thin frame and knees pulled up under the thin material of the smock to beg its warmth. A pressure in his abdomen made Bucky grateful Steve was asleep, and without so much as a pot in the cell, he moved to a slightly sunken corner to relieve his bladder.

Coming back up to the bars, he considered trying to wake Steve, but it was colder now than it had been when he’d passed out and if Steve could sleep through this until…

Until they died, he guessed. No—until they “wiped” him (and damned if he knew what that meant, but he had more pressing concerns) and killed Steve. There was nothing—no way for them to escape. Searching the cell didn’t take long, and it took even less time to realize that no-one made any rounds by them so he couldn’t even try and bargain for as much as a blanket, let alone swipe anything useful.

Sitting on the ground, he tried to copy Steve’s position and found he had a bit too much mass to fit his legs under his smock. With a sigh, he rested his chin on his knees and kept an eye open, watching the younger man and wondering if the man he’d talked to had been the same man who’d sat in the dance hall and leered at them. It wasn’t unlikely, he decided, as much as the guy’d made his skin crawl at the time. Bucky wondered if this would have gone any different if they’d stayed at the hall, tried to wait the man out. Maybe gone bar hopping, or gotten in an early line for a soup kitchen.

He wonders if it would’ve made a difference, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it would’ve.

“Buck?” His head shoots up, turning to watch Steve cough violently against his knees, whole frame rattling with the force of it.

On his feet, he gripped the bars and tried to talk over the hacking, barking sounds of Steve’s coughing despite the soreness of his own throat. “C’mon, breathe, Stevie. Breathe—‘s okay, we’re gonna be outta here soon, but you gotta slow it down and breathe.” His voice was rough, parched, and he wondered how long they’d been here, already. He hoped they’d be getting water, soon.

“Hang in there, Stevie,” he soothed, wishing he could do more than stand there; they were lucky, though, and soon Steve’s coughing subsided to shivers. With a laugh that sounded forced even to Steve’s ears, he teased, “’S so cold in here I think I might’ve had an involuntary sex change.” Steve offered a laugh that was just as forced.

“If you manage it,” Steve tossed back, “maybe we can get off these charges, right?”

Bucky didn’t laugh. Instead, he debated telling Steve what he’d heard. Maybe between the two of them, they’d be able to figure something out; Steve’d always been clever, after all. At the same time, Bucky didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to scare Steve with it all. He knew with the same surety that his own death wouldn’t worry him that the minute he mentioned “wiping,” Steve’d wear a rut in his cell. Lobotomy had crossed his mind, but… if they wanted him to do something, they’d need him to be able to respond and react, wouldn’t they?

In the end, though, there was no way he’d be able to figure a way out of here on his own, and a selfish part of him wanted to put all his faith in Steve.

“There ain’t any charges,” Bucky started, sighing heavily and rubbing the lump on his head. “We’re not here ‘cause we’re homos, Steve. Someone wants you dead.”

“But—if they want me dead, why take you?” Steve prodded, his voice rasping and sore and Bucky wanted to puke.

“’Cause they want me alive, and… they figure without you, I’d probably get myself killed. Probably right, too,” he admitted, and Steve stood from his corner to walk over to the bars, his motions stiff and sore.

“Buck,” Steve started, drawing the older man’s attention, “I need to know everything you do. Who wants me dead? Where are we? When do the wardens come by?”

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t know. Still, with Steve’s sudden burst of determination, Bucky relayed everything that had happened so far, hope waking a fragile warmth in his stomach that maybe—maybe they’d get out of this. ‘Cause nothing—not teachers, not cops, not illness—ever stopped Steve once he’d made up his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to Marvel.


	3. Rats

It sounded like someone tinkering around in the vents overhead. Bucky figured it was probably rats, their tiny claws tick-tick-ticking against the sheet metal. Steve didn’t seem to notice it, but Bucky figured that had more to do with his focus laying more in keeping warm and less in his own deafness. If nothing else, the thought of rats scurrying about overhead provided a distraction from the parched soreness of his throat or the aching of his empty stomach.

After a time, though, the overhead noises settled, and Bucky scowled. He remembered on a dare once skinning a rat out back of the orphanage and cooking it up; it hadn’t tasted as bad as he’d thought it would, even if the nuns had wacked him a good one for it. He’d give an arm to be able to cook one of ‘em up now—hell, he’d give an arm for a fire. Steve wasn’t looking too good, and Bucky had decided a while ago against torturing himself with asking how Steve was holding up (“Good,” he’d say in that soft rasp, offering Bucky a tremulous smile and trying not to dissolve into another bout of coughing).

A red light flashed through the hall, then, and echoing sirens rang throughout the building, Bucky leaping to his feet and Steve startled into a fresh round of barking coughs. 

“Jesus fuck!” Bucky pressed himself to the bars, neck craning desperately for any sign of motion aside from the now-flashing red lights. “Hey! _Hey_!” He reached an arm through the bars, waving it wildly and trying to tell if the area felt any warmer. He wasn’t sure what the alarms were for, of course, but they were the only ones who seemed to be in this block so between a jailbreak and a fire, Bucky knew which was more likely.

It was then the vents overhead gave way, and Bucky watched a black blur of a man fall to the ground between them, landing gracefully on the ground. With a sick twist of his stomach, he recognized the figure dressed all in black, long hair falling around a masked face. He wore fisheye glasses as dark as the rest of his ensemble, and moved mechanically when he stood from the low crouch he’d landed in. Bucky felt a chill race up his spine as the man turned to look at him, and he slowly pulled his arm in to grip the bars.

The harsh sound of Steve’s coughing broke through to Bucky, and he looked around the taller man to glimpse Steve’s small, shaking form. “Please,” he started, gesturing to the blond. “Please, you gotta help him.”

The man didn’t speak, but gripped the bars of Steve’s cell and _pulled_ , and Buck’s eyes went wide to see the metal part for him. Stepping through, he pulled from an overlarge pocket a tight-folded blanket, wrapping the shaking form of the smaller man in it and lifting him up. If he spoke, Bucky couldn’t hear it, but he caught the soft hiss of what sounded like a high-end nebulizer, and the thumping in his chest softened somewhat.

Pulling Steve from his cell, the man came toward Bucky, shifting Steve to rest over his shoulder before grabbing the bars of Bucky’s cell and easily moving them.

“He’s delirious,” the man spoke, and though the mask obscured his voice Bucky couldn’t help but think it sounded familiar. Climbing out, Bucky winced to hear a door at the end of the hall opening.

With a start, he found himself with an armful of shivering Steve, watching the masked man retrieve a sleek handgun from his pocket and fire three shots—then, watching three bodies fall to the floor.

“We’re moving,” the man said as he began walking toward the downed guards. Skin prickling and arms tight around Steve, Bucky hurried after him, keeping close even as he tried to get a good look at Steve. The younger man’s face was sickly pale, his skin clammy and cold, and it was by the grace of God that Bucky heard his rasping breath above the pounding of his own heart.

“Hey, Stevie, you with me?” he murmured, staying behind their tall rescuer and doing his best not to watch when the man cleared their path of guards. “Stevie, c’mon—open an eye or somthin’, but lemme know you’re here.”

The younger man offered a soft groan that gave way to a fresh bout of coughing, this time weaker than its predecessors, and Bucky felt his stomach drop, wrapping the thin blanket tighter around Steve.

The corridors of the facility wound long and far, and Bucky wasn’t sure they’d have been able to find their way through the bright-lit halls without a guide; he was grateful for their companion despite the uneasy feeling that pressed into his skin and raised the hairs on his neck whenever the man would glance back at them. He was grateful, also, that it didn’t happen often.

As far as he’d seen, there were no windows around them, and every door led only further and further into the compound; the relief Bucky felt when they reached a wide elevator was instant. If they’d been underground, it would account both for the lack of natural lighting and the chill, and he hoped when they’d reached the outside again things would warm up. His feet ached, and the rough concrete would have torn into his soles if not for the thick callouses he bore.

Stepping inside gave a brief respite, too, from the flashing red lights and the noise of the sirens, and Bucky leaned back against a wall of the elevator, gaze traveling over their companion. His black suit was skin-tight and covered in pockets and straps, and the fingers of his left arm didn’t seem to curl like those of his right. If it weren’t for the immense strength the man displayed, he would’ve thought it was a war wound.

“Hey,” he started, and when the man gave no indication that he’d heard, Bucky went on, “d’you know where we are? Stevie needs to see a doctor; he’s got asthma an’ a weak heart, and fevers hit him real hard.”

The man didn’t move.

“Are you even listening?” Bucky pressed, raising his voice and shifting against the wall. “He needs help. I need to get him to a hospital.”

“You can’t. They’ll be waiting.”

Bucky frowned, brow furrowing as he shook his head. “We’ll use fake names, then, but he’s gotta see a doctor.”

“They’ll find you the minute you re-enter the city.”

“He needs medicine!”

The elevator slowed to a halt, then, and Bucky found himself suddenly vividly aware that the sirens had stopped. Looking to the taller man, he stepped back from the door and clutched Steve tighter against his chest.

Doors opening swiftly, Bucky dropped to the ground, narrowly escaping the rata-tat-tat bullets of a Tommy gun. The taller man stepped forward, seemingly _ignoring_ the shells that bounced against his suit before reaching out to grip the barrel of the gun, forcing it shut mid-shot and slamming it back through the stricken man who’d wielded it.

Without a glance backward he continued forward, Bucky scrambling to follow and trying his damnedest not to heave when he felt warm blood against the side of his foot. Frightened as he was, there was a small piece of him that was grateful for Steve’s fever. Grateful he didn’t have to see this.

At a final set of doors, the taller man stopped them. “Wait here,” he said, loading a new clip into his handgun and tugging a small pocketknife from a pouch along his leg. Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, hankering down in a corner of the room and distracting himself from the sudden volume outside by stroking Steve’s matted hair, pushing it away from his damp brow.

“Hey, Stevie,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the man’s brow in the echoing concrete chamber. “’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you outta here, and you’re gonna be okay.”

Steve coughed weakly and Bucky adjusted his smock, shifting to wrap himself around the blonde man, blood stench pressing into his lungs until he buried his face in Steve’s hair because maybe he smelled sickly, but that, at least, was familiar. And, God, did he need familiar.

The fight outside was loud, and it was frightening, and it pounded against Bucky’s aching head, and he was sure if he wasn’t so _thirsty_ he’d have been crying. Instead he hurt and his stomach churned, and he would’ve given anything to just go home, to wrap himself around Steve in their small, combined bed and keep him home from Church on Sunday morning and be scolded for neglecting his spiritual needs. He would’ve given anything to eat bean toast in bed and to play with Steve’s soft, fresh-washed locks that curled when they were wet.

“We’re going, now.” The noise woke him from his reverie, and in the distance he heard the elevator moving down again as the tall man came to stand over him. Despite the heavily-tinted goggles, Bucky had the impression that the man’s gaze softened—not on him, but on the heaving form of the blond in his arms.

He made to object when the man lifted Steve from his arms, but Bucky knew when he was beaten, and at the man’s “I have medicine,” he pulled himself to his feet, following dumbly out the door and clamping down on the bile that threatened to leap from his throat at the scene before him, carnage and bodies and the almighty Goddamn as a single question worked its way out of his throat.

“What _are_ you?”

The man didn’t answer, walking forward into the dense forest outside the compound with Bucky in an awed and horror-stricken daze following close behind, the thought to run vanishing as quickly as it had come. If this man had taken down so many armed guards, would running down a feverish asthmatic and a dehydrated Brooklyn boy present an ounce of a challenge?

Of course it wouldn’t.

“Where are we?” he tried again, and the long-haired man glanced over his shoulder half a moment as he stepped over a fallen tree.

“Southern Ohio.”

It was enough. Bucky hadn’t wanted to know that, and he shut his mouth tightly, following silently behind the tall soldier.


	4. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much shorter chapter, but I promise there's more coming!

The shack looked like something straight out of one of Benny’s awful spook stories, Bucky thought as he rubbed at his temples not for the first time, trying to will the dehydrated dizziness away. The thing was visibly crumbling, roof half caved in, moss covering the thatching and door held shut with a length of rope that their guide unraveled before walking inside.

The interior was something else, entirely. Bucky’d never seen so many weapons in the whole of his life, and while he prided himself on being able to differentiate between most pistols and handguns, he wasn’t able to identify a single one that hung on the walls of the building. A single cot was shoved into a covered corner of the shack, and a fire pit had been dug where the roof ended, just barely covered. Closing the door behind him, Bucky watched the tall man lay Steve down on the cot, starting as a canteen was thrust into his hands.

“Drink.” It wasn’t a request; Bucky wouldn’t have turned it down, anyway, and once he saw the man had enough for Steve as well he gladly took a long swill, savoring the way it ran cool down his throat and soothed the torn skin. A wave of dizziness rushed over him, Bucky sliding to the dirt floor and leaning back against the cabin wall as his eyes slid shut, breathing and sipping at his water as he listened to the man rummaging about.

He was exhausted. He’d pulled double-shifts at the docks and scrap yards that hadn’t left him this tired, and running a hand through his matted hair he wished he hadn’t put so much grease in it before he and Steve had gone out.

A laugh, low and self-deprecating, escaped chapped lips, and Bucky cracked an eye open to see the masked man pulling out what he could identify as a first aid kit.

“Got somethin’ in there that’ll help Steve?” he asked, shifting his smock and crossing his legs.

“Here,” the man answered, tossing a pair of dark blue jeans and a cotton button-up to Bucky. “The shoes by the door should fit you.”

Bucky blinked, shaking his head. “No—no, hold up, how do you know my shoe size? How’d you find Steve and me?” he started, slowly dragging himself to his feet. “I haven’t gotten a single straight answer since—since this started, and I think it’s about damn time someone explained _something_.”

The man didn’t move—not at first. Taking a small orange bottle out of his first aid kit, he showed it to Bucky. “Antibiotics. I’ve got liver oil and anti-inflammatories, too. There’s a river a quarter mile south. Wash up, get dressed, I’ll give him his medicines and then answer your questions.”

Giving the man a dubious look, Bucky sighed. “Guess we’d be dead if you wanted us that way, huh? You got a name at least?”

“James.”

Bucky didn’t think twice about it, thanking the man as he was handed a bar of soap. Gathering up his things, he made his way down to the river, scrubbing fiercely at his hair and grateful when at last the grease and grime began to wash away. The pounding in his head had begun to lessen, and when he climbed out of the river to towel himself off with his smock, he was pleasantly surprised to find a pair of clean shorts and socks tucked into the jeans. Fully dressed, he considered leaving the smock by the river bank. God knew he wouldn’t wear it again. Even so, he rationalized, Steve might need the extra fabric to keep warm.

Coming back to the cabin, Bucky was relieved to see some color had returned to Steve’s cheeks, and he sat back on the floor as he watched James feed the blond what looked like warm soup, though Bucky didn’t see any change in the fire pit. Sighing heavily, he leaned against the wall.

“So, you gonna start explaining?”

“Sleep, first,” James instructed, getting up to get Steve another blanket. “When he wakes up, I’ll only have to say it once.”

Bucky would’ve put up a fight, but damn if he wasn’t falling asleep where he sat, and it wasn’t long before his eyes were fluttering shut with some unintelligible murmur on his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the cold that woke him. Bucky shivered, arms wrapping around himself as he blearily glanced to the mess of blankets he’d thrown off in his sleep. James was nowhere to be seen, but on a small, pull-out counter whose supports were molded in place was a large plate of something that looked vaguely like scrambled eggs. Grimacing, Bucky rubbed at his growling stomach and decided rubber or not, he needed food.

The first bite confirmed his fears; they were disgusting. He could _taste_ the protein, packed into every tentative nibble, and with a sigh he took a large bite and washed it down with a long swill from the canteen (which, he supposed, James must’ve refilled in the night). Sitting at Steve’s side, he was relieved to see color returning to his face, and he brushed a matted lock of hair from his forehead, smiling gently as he younger man stirred in his sleep.

Blue eyes fluttering open, Steve croaked, “Buck? Are we…?”

“We’re safe,” he answered, glancing around before pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s damp forehead. “There’s even breakfast—I mean, y’know, it ain’t beans and toast but it’s something.”

Steve laughed, a breathy sound that brought warmth rushing to Bucky’s chest as he helped the man sit up, bringing the plate over to let Steve grab a few bites. The blond grimaced, giving Bucky a stink eye. “You sure this ain’t your cookin’?” he asked, and Bucky thumped his shoulder.

“Don’t be disrespectful, punk,” he groused, laughing when Steve muttered something under his breath that he couldn’t quite make out. “And don’t mumble, ‘s rude.”

“Like you got any right t’be lecturing me on what is and ain’t rude, Barnes,” Steve tossed back, hissing in a gasp before a heavy, hearty coughing fit overtook him; as Bucky rubbed gently at Steve’s back, he ignored the guilt he felt to be grateful for the strength of Steve’s echoing cough.

It took a while to settle, but that much was to be expected. Having Steve lucid, having him strong enough to sit up—it was more than Bucky usually hoped for the day after a fever broke, and he was damn grateful. “Don’t sweat it,” he’d reassured when Steve had tried to apologize for coughing on him. “After all, if you’re gettin’ over it so quick, I’m sure it won’t be no trouble for me.”

Steve smiled—that brilliant little look he saved just for Bucky—and the older man’s heart fluttered as he tried not to think about how close he came to losing Steve. Now wasn’t the time. Now, they needed answers, and he wondered where James might’ve gone off to.

“Who was that guy—I didn’t imagine him, right?” Steve asked, looking around the shack. “I mean, I guess I couldn’t have; you’re tough, Buck, but that was…”

“Yeah,” he conceded, stroking Steve’s hair. “I dunno, though. Said his name’s James, but past that I dunno any more than you.”

With a laugh, Steve nuzzled against Bucky’s shoulder, leaning heavily on him. “Least he’s got a good name; I’ve found Jameses t’be pretty trust worthy.”

“Half the guys in Brooklyn’re named James, Steve. It don’t mean anything,” he huffed, giving the blond a brief squeeze.

“He smells like you, though,” Steve went on. “And he saved us. I think we can trust him, Buck.”

Rolling his eyes, he pressed another kiss to Steve’s hair. “I think we’re gonna have to. We’re in freakin’ _corn country_. In _Ohio_.”

“Maybe we could go north, then. See Rockefeller an’ Mayfield an’ the whole of Millionaire’s Row.” The glimmer of hope made Bucky’s chest ache, but it was so completely and utterly Steve, and the familiarity of it made him feel safe. Here they were, stuck on the run from some lunatic who wanted to kill Steve, wanted to _wipe_ Bucky, and that twirling head of his had gone right to sight-seeing. Bucky laughed, holding onto Steve, and neither heard the door open until a low, muffled voice startled them both.

“Good, you’re up,” James breathed through the thickness of his mask. “Did you eat enough?”

Steve nodded, smiling at the man. “Thank you. I don’t know why you saved us, but I’m glad you did.”

The man paused, blank fish goggles somehow curious in the light, and nodded. “You’re welcome. We’ll have to get moving tomorrow.”

“C’mon—who’d be trying to track you down,” Bucky objected, gesturing to the tall man. “I mean—you took down half their freakin’ base single-handed. And Steve needs rest.”

“I’m okay, Buck,” the blond cut in, shaking his head. “Honest. I dunno what kinda medicine you gave me, but it’s workin’. Gimme an hour or two more sleep an’ I’d be right as rain.”

Bucky looked ready to argue until James said, with an absolute finality. “We go tomorrow. So get what rest you need today.” With that, he reached into his pack and pulled out the orange bottles once more, handing pills to Steve alongside the canteen. The blond dutifully took them, forcing himself upright despite the part of him that wanted to lean against Bucky.

“What about that explanation?” Bucky started, once he was sure Steve’d taken all his pills. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere else ‘till you tell me what’s goin’ on.”

James sighed, an audible puff of air escaping him, and he faced the counter as his long, brown hair obscured his face from their view. Slowly, he tugged off his goggles, laying them down and followed shortly by the hard shape of his mask. His motions were stilted, as if he were uncertain of how to proceed, and Bucky tensed as he waited.

Turning to face them, it was Steve who found his voice first.

“Bucky? But—you’re…”

James laughed, a sour sound accompanying a sour smirk. “Yeah. I’m him—who he will be, anyway.”

And then: “There’s no way. You took down _half their base_ ; I couldn’t— _can’t_ do that.”

“No,” James agreed with a stiff nod. “You can’t. Not yet, anyway. But you’ll be able to someday. It’s why I came back; because I’m not the only one who knows. Those men are—“ here, he cut himself off, rolling words around in his head like there were things he couldn’t say.

“Came back,” Bucky started, chewing his lip as he thought. “So… so you’re, what, from the future?” James nodded. “Okay… Okay, say I—we—believe you. Why? What for?”

“Because Steve doesn’t die here.”

Bucky breathed a low sigh, back relaxing somewhat as Steve petted a hand along his spine. It was, of course, the sort of answer he’d look for; is Steve okay? Anyone who knew him knew where his priorities stood. Always “is Steve okay?” The whole situation, though, felt so utterly surreal, and he was glad he had a compass sitting beside him to help steer the conversation.

“But why do they want me dead in the first place?” Steve piped up, breath stilted just enough that Bucky knew he wasn’t as calm as he was trying to pretend. “And who _are_ they, anyway? I mean, I guess on some level it’d make sense for them to want Buck—you, I mean. If you wind up this strong and all, it makes sense for people to want to make sure you do, but… What could I do?”

“Steve—“ Bucky cut in, and the blonde shook his head.

“No. Buck, c’mon, you and I both know I’m a foot in the grave on a good day. I ain’t strong and I ain’t fast and I can’t do half the stuff you can,” Steve pushed on, ignoring the darkening looks that had fallen on him both from James and Bucky. “You make sense. You were always strong, an’ it looks like you only get stronger. But me? Bucky… c’mon.”

A heavy breath escaped James as Bucky gripped Steve’s shoulders. “You shut the _hell_ up, you hear me?” he hissed, tight-fists on the younger man’s small frame. “You just shut right the hell up, ‘cause maybe you can’t carry shit around the docks, but there’s a thousand guys born every day who could do that. You? Steve, you’re smart. Smarter than I’ll _ever_ be, an’ don’t you ever doubt that. You start on shit—on politics or science or _anythin’_ you decide—an’ you figure things out like no-one else can, so don’t you ever say you’re not worth nothin’. Me? I fight, I work, I’m a body. But anyone can do that, Stevie. An’ I swear to Jesus Christ and Mary, if I _ever_ hear you talkin’ like that about yourself again I’ll knock you on your ass so hard your great grand-kids’ll feel it.”

James stayed quiet, having watched the exchange with an increasingly tense expression. Steve fell forward, leaning against Bucky once more to hide his face in the man’s side. James shifted uncomfortably; it felt voyeuristic, watching the way they talked, and even if his head knew he belonged in the scene, there wasn’t anything familiar to it. Standing there, watching himself, the memories were out of reach, and he felt confined.

“Hey,” Steve started, James’s gaze snapping to him as he lifted reddened eyes to meet James’s. “Are you okay?”

James sighed. The size might be wrong, but it was Steve, alright. He nodded, comforted in the knowledge that some things stayed the same. “When you’re up to walking, go down the stream and wash up,” he said, tugging bundled clothes out of a bag and laying them out for Steve. “I’m going to check the perimeter. When we reach the next safe house, it will have electricity, and I’ll be able to get you through to somewhere protected.”

Without waiting for a reply, James stalked out of the room, slinging a rifle over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him.


	6. Talking to Yourself

“Y’know, I don’t usually go for the whole “country-side” look, but actually this is pretty comfy,” Steve admitted, fitting a pair of dark jeans over his slender hips and grinning when they stayed up. “And you’ve got a good eye for what fits in the future, Buck.”

“You sayin’ I couldn’t guess your size now?” Bucky ribbed, nudging Steve as the younger man tucked his shirt in. 

Steve grinned, looking down at the way the denim gripped his legs; “I don’t think these are ordinary jeans, so maybe you just lucky, instead. I look like some kinda super hero dress-up,” he laughed, picking slightly at the material and watching it stretch and return to form. “I dunno, though—yours look like plain enough jeans!”

Ruffling Steve’s hair, Bucky took a chance to admire the way the tight fabric outlined Steve’s shapely thighs, and he pressed a quick kiss to the blond’s neck. “You look great, baby doll.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shoving Bucky and starting back toward the cabin. “Come on, Barnes; I got more questions for your stunt double, an’ I’m sure you do, too.”

“Hold up,” Bucky paused, seating himself on a sizeable rock as the mirth slipped from his eyes. “Steve—somethin’ about this ain’t right. You’ve known me your whole life; now, I’ll admit, I ain’t the best guy out there—I’ve done more than enough shit I ain’t proud of—but that? Breaking us outta there? Steve, you didn’t see how he fought; I did. That was honest to God slaughter.”

It was true enough; Steve could barely recall their escape, fever-hazy has his mind had been. But he’d felt safe, and secure, and even _if_ something felt off, it was _Bucky_. He’d trust him to the end.

“I don’t know if you had much of a choice, Buck. I mean… how else were we supposed to get outta there?” Steve argued, setting himself down beside Bucky to lean on the brunet’s shoulder. “I know it’s weird an’ all, but honest—I don’t think we have anything to be afraid of. I know you’d never hurt me, and obviously you wouldn’t hurt yourself, either.”

Bucky shook his head, sighing heavily. “I wouldn’t— _I_ wouldn’t ever hurt you, but I don’t think that’s _me_. I mean, it’s my face, my voice, but… Steve, you saw his eyes. There’s somethin’ ain’t right with ‘em. I’m not sayin’ we oughta run—not like we’re gonna be able to make it back to the city with no money on us, anyway—but just… Promise me you won’t let yourself be alone with him, okay? For my own peace of mind, ‘cause I’m paranoid or whatever you wanna call it.”

Steve sighed—a heavy, exasperated sound—and pressed a brief kiss to the brunet’s cheek. “Alright, Buck. For you, I can do that. Just promise me you won’t go too overboard with that paranoia of yours, okay?”

With a nod, Bucky helped Steve to his feet, the two of them making their way back to the cabin. James was nowhere to be seen, and Bucky wasn’t sure if it made him more or less nervous, but there was hot food and clean water available when they got back, and he made sure Steve ate and took his medicines before the blond went back to sleep, Bucky sitting at his side and petting his soft hair.

“You’re right to be wary.” Bucky leapt in his seat, head turning to find James standing behind him.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he hissed, glancing to see Steve was still fast asleep. “ _Jesus_ …”

“How is he?” James asked, and Bucky shook his head.

“Oh, no—you don’t get to say something like that and then ask how he is. We’re goin’ outside, and we’re gonna talk, got it?”

James laughed, as dry and sardonic as it had been before, and walked out of the shack, Bucky following warily behind. As the door eased shut, they walked a fair distance away, and Bucky had to wonder if James realized they were well out of earshot of the half-deaf blond. “Now what are you on about?” he pressed, folding his arms over his chest. “What is it you’re plannin’ to do that I have to be wary about, and why tell me if you wanna get away with it?”

“That’s more than I can tell you and trust you not to spill to him,” James answered, posture stiff and precise, and Bucky found himself growing uneasy.

“What are you gonna do to him?” he asked again, taking a step toward the shack, away from James.

“You heard it yourself, didn’t you? They want to kill him; they want to wipe you.” The older man spoke as if this answered everything, and Bucky was left only with more questions. “It means they’re going to take your memories, make you forget Steve so that his death wouldn’t devastate you—wouldn’t even phase you.”

“Wait—wait, a lobotomy?” Bucky cut in, shaking his head violently. “They _lobotomize_ me?”

James snorted. “In a sense? Yes. But it’s more than that—you can see me, now. I can think, fight, react. I’m not an invalid.”

“So they win…” Bucky breathed, arms falling to his side and breathing out like he’d been struck.

“I’ve told you; Steve doesn’t die yet,” James interrupted, slowly undoing the Velcro of his left glove. Bucky glanced over—and paused, brow furrowing as the glint of metal came into view.

“Is that—?” Bucky breathed, watching wide-eyed as James tugged off his shirt, revealing the myriad scars that fed into the shape of his metal arm.

“It’s a weapon,” he answered, gaze meeting Bucky’s own. “We’re a _weapon_ , Barnes. You’re right to call what happened in the base slaughter, and it’s not over yet. That’s why I’m sending you two away. Because I can’t have liabilities, not now. I have work to do, and… I can’t hurt him again.”

Bucky didn’t ask who he meant. He didn’t need to.

“Being around me is playing with fire,” James went on, tugging his shirt back on and covering his hand once more. “And neither we, nor any of the rest of the world, can afford for either of you to get burned. He already knows too much, and it’s my own fault on that front, but we risk changing the course of history and _that can’t happen_.”

Bucky nodded, closing his eyes and loosing a slow sigh escaping him as he did. “Alright. I understand. You—just, go watch the perimeter, I’ll take care of Steve.”

James was gone when he looked back up. Bucky didn’t check around for him, walking back to the cabin to keep watch over Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> All rights to Marvel.


End file.
